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THE LITTLE 
POEM BOOK 




BY SARAH SIMONS REESE 



COPYRIGHT 1920 
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA 






m \2 1920 

CI.A566473 



I 



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THE LITTLE POEM BOOK 



This little volume was born on one of the quiet 
canon streets in Los Angeles, California, some time 
during the great world war. It was a modest scrap- 
book which left my home each week, borne by the 
loving hands of some child. 

Only one poem was promised each week, and 
at the end of that time another child returned for 
a new poem. 

Each day it found its way into a different home 
on the street, and the children who were unable to 
read, gathered in small groups on the green lawns, 
while an older child read to them. Although so 
thoroughly read and thumbed, the little scrapbook 
never came home soiled or torn. 

When it became necssary to christen the book 
and put on a printed gown, I discovered that I 
had neglected to name this infant, and for a long 
time I could think of nothing suitable. At last, it 
dawned on me to call it The Little Poem Book, for 
that was the name that Betty and the other children 
on the street loved to call it. 

There are no make-believes in The Little Poem 
Book; the children, the flowers, the birds and ani- 
mals are those that I have known and loved. 

This book in its modest slip is not for these chil- 
dren alone, but for all children, whatever race, color 
or creed. Some day this babe may appear in a 
finer gown and cap, but until it has cut all of its 
teeth and been weaned, it will wear this simple 
gown, and be known as The Little Poem Book. 

By the author: 

SARAH SIMONS REESE. 



GRIFFITH PARK 



Oh! come with me to this woodland spot, 
For the morn dawns bright and fair; 

The purple larkspurs crown the hills, 
And sweet wild roses scent the air. 

The yellow mustard lines the road, 
And gleams as a sea of gold; 

I love to lie 'neath the shady oaks, 
And their giant arms behold. 

I love to drink from the tiny spring, 
And climb each wild, steep hill; 

Where the waxen yucca rears its head 
Like a sentinel, grim and still. 

The river winds like a silken thread 
Mid banks of shimmering green; 

The brushwood hangs with matted vines, 
Where the coyotes crouch unseen. 

The sun has fled, the primrose wakes, 
And her petals of silk unfold; 

The feathery clouds are changing fast 
From swansdown into gold. 

I must away, the night grows chill, 
And draws down her misty veil; 

From sombre depths of purple steeps 
Comes the call of the mountain quail. 



A CALIFORNIA THRUSH 



I have the dearest little friend 

Who comes to visit me; 
If you should care to know her name, 

Why, it is Mrs. Curiosity. 

I have known her now about four years, 

A modest thrush is she; 
In spring her suit is trig and brown 

And stylish as can be. 

She has a comfy little perch 

Beside the rosebush, where 
She looks across into my room 

When I dress or comb my hair. 

Although so busy with her young, 
She looks me through and through; 

Her solemn eyes just seem to say, 
"What kind of nest have you?" 

She feeds them bugs and squirmy things; 

It's plain as plain can be, 
This food to them tastes just as fine 

As cakes and tarts to me. 

So when the babes are old enough 
She brings them in great glee; 

They all sit on the comfy perch 
Where I can plainly see. 



A CALIFORNIA THRUSH 

(Continued) 

And when the autumn days have come, 

The hillsides all are brown; 
My friend then comes to visit me 

In such a ragged gown. 

Her feathers are so thin and plain, 

But I excuse my friend; 
If I were feeding tiny birds, 

Would I have time to mend? 

But later on, she comes again, 

The children all are there; 
They sit upon the comfy perch 

With such a curious stare. 

Her coat is, oh! so soft and new, — 

A happy thrush is she; 
She takes the children with her now 

Out in good society. 



THE HUMMING BIRD 



An autumn day among the hills, 

The sunshine's golden glow; 
I hear the bluebird's lusty scream 

In the elder-bush below. 
The salvia by my kitchen door, 

Her long green stems aflame 
With scarlet bugles, 'waits a guest, 

But you cannot guess his name. 

The ferns are nodding in the breeze, 

The tree toad croaks his song, 
The lizard looks as if he hoped 

The guest would not be long. 
I sit and watch in silence, too, — 

I could not think of gloom; 
I know so well my friend will come 

When the salvias are in bloom. 

The kitten's modest drinking cup 

Becomes a foaming sea; 
A splash, a dash of rainbow spray — 

What can the matter be? 
A coat of brown, a glint of green, 

I know without a doubt 
It is my friend, the humming bird, — 

He has no fears to rout. 



10 



THE HUMMING BIRD 

(Continued 

His table is already spread 

Just for the tiny guest; 
He darts around the salvia bush 

To find what he likes best. 
His winecups are so rich and rare, 

He sips from every one; 
They are the bugles, scarlet red, 

That shimmer in the sun. 

The electric wire up above 

Is such a pleasant swing, 
And there he sits and watches me, 

But never tries to sing. 
I hear the whir of tiny wings 

At noon and early dawn ; 
I'm sure my guest will stay until 

The scarlet blooms are gone. 



SOMEWHERE IN CALIFORNIA 

In canons deep, o'er feathery ferns, 

Flit painted butterflies; 
The grass is strewn with blue and gold 

And a thousand starry eyes. 

The tiny stream o'er smooth white stones 

And clumps of water-cress, 
Daily sings her plaintive songs 

And only sings to bless. 

The daylight wanes, the breezes blow, 
The poppies hide their gold; 

The wild oats croon a lullaby, 
A secret sweet they hold. 

With jangling bells, the cows come home, 

For the day falls fast asleep ; 
The night owl hoots, and lean coyotes 

Skulk from the shadows deep. 

The hills are clothed in purple mist, 
The red, gold clouds are dim; 

Evening comes with a wealth of stars 
To sing her vesper hymn. 



12 



THE NEW MOON 



A little moon, in the heavens high, 

Peeped over a cloudy wall; 
She was so small, so thin and white, 

I feared lest she would fall. 
A little star played peekaboo 

As the filmy clouds went by; 
The little moon was so very new, 

She was glad for a friendly eye. 

The other stars came out at last 

And winked at her so bold, 
The little moon turned all at once 

From silver into gold. 
When last I saw the little moon, 

The earth was cold and chill; 
And blushing red, she hurried down 

And hid behind the hill. 



NEMOPHILA 



Little flowers, so rare and sweet, 
Hidden in some wild retreat; 
I know a child whose eyes of blue 
Always make me think of you. 

Your Latin name is very dear, 
So don't feel hurt or think it queer 
If I should change your name so wise 
And fondly call you Betty-eyes. 



13 



THE BEAN BLOWERS 

A knock at my door. Oh, who can it be? 
I open it wide, so curious to see, 
But I find the small boy that is smiling at me, 
No other than little Bobby. 

His clear blue eyes are shining bright, 
His face fairly glows with radiant light. 
These words he lisps with all his might, 

"Mrs. Weese, may I have a bean blower?" 

This thought profound I cannot grasp, 

Wondering still what is to be my task; 

I think a long while, then I simply ask, 

"Bobby, what is a bean blower?" 

He looked amazed, and laughed with glee, 
And said, "Mrs. Weese, why, can't you see? 
Bean blowers grow on the bean blower tree." 
Yet I failed to understand. 

He said, "I know just where one grows; 
Come with me," then he smiles and shows 
A tree in my yard, right under my nose, 
The wonderful, famous bean blower. 

An Aralia Japonica, standing near by, 
With fan-shaped leaves turned to the sky. 
I am puzzled still and wonder why 
It should be called a bean blower. 

— Continued 










«* £f*< >£. 



THE BEAN BLOWER 

(Continued) 

Little Bobby seemed to guess my plight. 
In lisping words, with all his might, 
He tried to put my thoughts aright, 
Just how to make a bean blower. 

"We boys cut off the big leaf, just so. 
The stalk is hollow, and then, you know, 
We put in the beans, and blow and blow 
The beans all out of the blower." 

I gave him a leaf; he left without noise. 
I was able to keep my mental poise, 
For in a short time I was besieged by boys 
Begging for just one bean blower. 

I cut each a leaf and, without any aid, 
I sent them away, a soldier brigade; 
Down the street they marched, a merry parade 
Of joyous, happy bean blowers. 

I am wiser now, for can't you see, 
Though the plant looked slim as a cocoanut tree, 
I had to be taught by a baby of three 
Just how to make a bean blower. 



16 



THE GREEN PARROT 



Our parrot is such a funny bird, 
Looks so glum, scarcely says a word 

When grown folks come. 
But you let some children come around! 
Then a smarter bird can ne'er be found 

Than the parrot we call Katie. 
She whistles long and loud with glee, 
Says all the words, it seems to me, 

That she has ever learned. 
But when all the children go away, 
That bird gets on her roost to stay 

And hardly makes a blessed sound. 



THE WEST WIND AND THE OAK 



Little flirting West Wind comes 
At noon most every day, 

And loves to tease the great live oak 
In a tantalizing way. 

She twists his bearded branches so, 
But you can see him smile, 

For he has known Miss West Wind 
For a long, long while. 

He treats her in a kindly way 
And will not even whine, 

But you can tell he's smiling, 
For his leaves just shine. 



WILD FLOWERS IN GRIFFITH PARK 



Beyond the goat-pen down the lane, 
When I took my morning stroll, 

I found some dainty little folks 
Growing on a grassy knoll. 

With colors of the richest hue, 
Woven in great Nature's loom, 

They're finer than the velvet rug 
In my mother's living-room. 

The yellow pansies smile at me 
As they the dewdrops sup; 

The tiny cream-cup's tousled head 
Looks as if she had just waked up. 

In lilac caps, the shooting-stars, 
Like sentinals, erect they stand 

And guard right well the cradleful 
of baby-blue-eyes in their land. 

These peaceful tenants soon will go, 
With ne'er a quarrel or regret; 

But until springtime comes again 
The grassy knoll will be "To Let." 



A LULLABY 



It is lullaby time in the garden, 
Yet the roses are still in bloom; 

The pansies, drooping their sleepy heads, 
Have no fear of darkness and gloom. 

Sister is singing the good-night song, 
While wee Elsa smiles in her sleep; 

"God's thoughts are the angels that guard thee, 
Dear Baby,'' His children He will keep. 

A soft truant breeze from the mountains 

Sweeping in at the open door, 
Now takes a kiss from wee Sister's lips, 

And comes stealing back for more. 

A mocking bird out in the rose-tree, 
Singing ever the whole night long; 

"God's thoughts are the angels that guard you, 
Sweet children," is his good-night song. 



THE NEW UMPIRE 



Wake up! wake up! you baseball team 

That live upon the Drive. 
A new boy moved right in your midst, 

He is very much alive. 

The stranger came last Sunday morn, — 

t was such a grand surprise; 
The baseball boys, who were all in bed, 

Never opened their sleepy eyes. 

Wake up! Billy Bush, and Bobby, too, 
Hugh, Lester and little Dan; 

I'll tell you now you'll be busy boys 
If you get ahead of this man. 

So you must practice every morn, 

A far better game to play; 
Make some showing, now you know 

Young Owens has come to stay. 



JIMMY SKUNK 
A Classic by Itself 



Little Jimmy Skunk from Mt. Washington, 
Such a queer little trick was he; 

He carried a perfume that was, oh, so cheap, 
And smelled as loud as could be. 

At night when I tuned my 'cello strings, 

I heard such a lively footfall; 
'Twas only Jimmy running, oh, so fast, — 

He didn't like fiddles at all. 

He could not have told me in plainer words; 

I shut up the windows, appalled; 
I was glad, but when I smelled that perfume, 

I knew Jimmy Skunk had called. 

I tossed a bone to a little pet dog; 

He had better at home, you see, 
So he left it there for old Tabby cat, — 

Her babes were hungry and so was she. 

Little Jimmy Skunk from Mt. Washington 
Came down with a mighty vim; 

He was hungry, too, and my back yard 
He thought just belonged to him. 

Whatever happened I did not ask, — 
I closed both the windows and door; 

My guests departed, and so did the smell, 
So I tuned up the 'cello once more. 



21 



BUTTERBALL 



Just a little cocker spaniel, not a common dog at 
all, 

His dainty mistress calls him by the name of Butter- 
ball. 

When the folks go in the auto, just out to take a 
ride, 

Butterball goes with them and sits up with great 
pride. 

But when they want to leave him and try to sneak 

away, 
They say to him in solemn tones, "Now, Butterball, 

you stay." 
And in a funny little heap he flops down by the 

door, 
Then waits until they come again, no matter what's 

in store. 

Oh, yes, he'll chase a cat or hen, for that is such a 
boon, 

It gives him some diversion through a weary after- 
noon; 

But there is a joy, however, that none can take 
away, — 

It's when his new friend Boodles comes o'er to have 
a play. 

In spite of length and such short legs, then let us all 

agree 
That Boodles has the kindest face that one could 

wish to see. 
And so they have the grandest time just rolling in 

the dust; 
A wholesome bath would do no harm, but I can 

hope and trust. 



BUTTERBALL 

(Continued) 

For that game is so exciting, it just always seems to 

me 
A streak of black and one of brown is all that I can 

see. 
For when the dust is settled, I know the game is 

done; 
Both dogs are so polite and kind, I hardly know 

which won. 

Then Boodles, with a loving glance, goes trotting off 

for home, 
So Butterball just flops right down, — he does not 

care to roam, 
But waits until his folks get back and, as they have 

before, 
They find a patient little dog outside the kitchen 

door. 



'23 



EL NIDO 



Mt. Washington, bathed in the warm California 
sunshine, awoke each beautiful spring morning to 
find her breast covered with the choicest gems. Lu- 
pines, Mariposa lilies and wild hyacinths, dipped in 
diamond dew, in wild profusion decorated the 
flounces of her gown. Mt. Washington was one of 
the fairest young daughters of Los Angeles, and 
one who lay nearest to the mother heart. The 
proud mother could hardly realize that this child 
was growing so fast, and that her needs must be 
met. 

As a baby, she was such a good little thing, for 
while the other children romped, she sat in a corner 
quietly sucking her thumb, and she never cried. 
Now, the crying baby often seems to get more atten- 
tion than the good child, but this is not really so, 
for it often happens that the busy mother, tiring 
of the incessant noise, will sometimes wait on the 
cross baby at once, but her heart is not in the 
service, for she only flatters herself vainly that the 
clamor will cease. 

Mother Los Angeles loved her quiet baby dearly. 
It is true, she could not always give her fine 
clothes, but somehow the baby always appeared well 
dressed. A cross baby seldom looks attractive, no 
matter how expensive its clothes may be. 

Mt. Washington's baby dresses were trimmed to 
the waist with the sheerest of laces. Sometimes in 
the spring she wore a lovely frock of wild oats, 
whose flounces were trimmed with the beautiful wild 
hyacinths and owl's clover. In the summer she wore 
a gay slip of yellow mustard, and later on in the 
autumn, a little brown and tan gown, for you know 
the warm sunshine loved to dye the green fringes 
in these particular colors at this time of the year. 
When the holidays came, there was always waiting 
for her a beautiful little red coat of California holly. 



24 



You see the Heavenly Father kept His child well 
dressed, so Mother Los Angeles did not have to fret 
about where the clothes were coming from. Later 
on, some real estate men discovered this good baby, 
so they put a new bonnet on her head. 

Now it was a wonderful head-dress and was 
trimmed with beautiful homes, but its chief orna- 
ment was a big hotel, and the cream pompon on 
the side was a dear little schoolhouse in mission 
style. The bonnet strings did not match, however, 
but that did not matter, for they were very useful 
indeed. One string was a long incline railway 
where a small car ran to and fro from the hotel, 
but the other was a lovely oiled road winding around 
the mountain to the same place. 

You see, good children do not have to scream 
and cry in order to be noticed, for goodness and 
patience always bring a right reward. Happy school 
children loved Mt. Washington and paid her many 
visits, often carrying home great bunches of wild 
flowers and holly. 

How the little wild birds loved her! The blue- 
birds screamed as they flew about in the wild walnut 
trees, while the mocking birds sang sweetly all the 
day and sometimes far into the night. The linnets 
and wild canaries teetered on the swaying branches 
of the wild mustard, and the little lizards sunned 
themselves and were very happy. 

As Mt. Washington grew to maidenhood, she 
pinned lovely jewels on her bonnet strings. These 
jewels were the pretty homes where so many happy 
children lived- On one long arm just above the 
black bonnet string, she wore in early spring a mag- 
nificent bracelet of purple lupines. It was just be- 
low this bracelet, nestled snugly in the curve of the 
arm, that a tiny brown bungalow was built. 

The lady who first lived there did not like the 
hills, as she longed for a place where there were 
no steep steps to climb; and thus it came to pass 
one day that another lady, who loved the hills and 
wild flowers, was looking for a home and discovered 
the little brown bungalow on the hillside. 



Every room in the house, every nook and closet 
was just as if she herself had planned it; therefore 
it came about that these ladies exchanged homes 
and each one was satisfied and happy. 

Now there was no name written anywhere, neither 
on the pergola nor the front porch, but to the new 
mistress this little home was always known as El 
Nido (the nest). 

The zigzag paths leading up to it were lined with 
many flowers, and vines clambered over the terraces 
in wild profusion. A Cecil Bruner rose covered the 
porch, where the little wild birds came each day to 
bathe under the drip of a faucet. All the wild 
things loved El Nido, because the little brown birds 
were always building their nests and raising their 
young there. 

At exactly half past twelve, at noon, Father Road- 
runner, a bird of dignified bearing, came across the 
black bonnet string, from the opposite hill, straight 
past the bedroom window and went up to the top 
of the amethyst hill. 

The little mistress of El Nido was sitting there 
sewing, and v/hen not watching the wild hyacinths 
wave in the long green grass, she often looked out 
and wondered what could be the matter and why 
did Father Roadrunner go to the top of the lupine 
hill at exactly that same hour each day. When 
three baby roadrunners came down from the blue 
hill later on, she knew the secret and never ques- 
tioned again. In the rear of El Nido, close to the 
blue bedroom, was built a pergola, and the owner 
thatched the roof with the leaves from the fan palm, 
so that the tender ferns and begonias might be shel- 
tered from the hot sun. 

One day there was a clatter among the dry palm 
leaves and, the mistress hearing it, ran out just in 
time to see Mrs. Brownbird snipping long threads 
to weave in her nest in the honeysuckle vine oppo- 
site the kitchen window. 

The mistress foolishly showed a dear friend the 
new home, so Mrs. Brownbird left off building that 
nest and moved. Yet the snipping of the palms 
went on for many days, and then finally ceased. 



On day, in memory of a kindness done, the Room 
of Gratitude was built right in the angle of the 
bungalow where the balloon vine clambered over 
the fragrant honeysuckle. 

It was right here that the master of El Nido made 
a great discovery, for he found Mrs. Brownbird* s 
new nest hanging in the strands of the baloon vine 
with four fuzzy babies in it. 

The mistress ran out when she heard the news 
and, looking up overhead, saw the nest On one 
side a few feet away, with calm, untroubled eyes, 
sat Father Brownbird, and on the opposite side, 
exactly the same distance from the nest, sat the 
mother bird, watching and trusting. 

In the mouth of each parent was a big fat worm. 
In the midst of rasping saws and clattering ham- 
mers, they sat in silence waiting, and when no one 
was watching, they flew quickly to their babies, who 
also waited, unafraid, with wide open mouths for 
their meal. The man who was building the new 
room did not understand little birds very well. He 
had always considered himself too busy a man to 
notice them, so he emphatically remarked that that 
nest would have to come down before he could put 
on the roof. 

The little mistress of El Nido pleaded that the 
little home was not to be disturbed until the babies 
were ready to fly, but the man was more firm than 
ever. He said, "Would you stop a building for the 
sake of a bird's nest?" So much of the balloon 
vine had been torn away that there now remained 
only two slender strands to hold the nest with the 
four fuzzy babies in it. 

Always at their post, she beheld Father and 
Mother Brownbird watching and trusting. Each 
day, as she watched this little family, she herself 
learned to trust and not be afraid. 

When the electric light was put in the Room of 
Gratitude and turned on for the first time, the white 
bulb was so close to the nest that the four fuzzy 
little creatures woke up and blinked, then peered 



27 



over the nest and stared hard at the light. Yet this 
small family was not afraid. 

The little mistress was reminded each day, as she 
gazed at the swinging nest and its happy occupants, 
of the Heavenly Father's loving care over all His 
creatures. 

At last a beautiful thought, like a swift angel, 
came to the master of El Nido. Said he aloud: 
"I know what I can do to save that nest; I can make 
a wooden frame and hang the nest to it and put it 
on top of the house away from the new part." 

The mistress rejoiced greatly, for had she not 
learned a beautiful lesson in watching the birds? 
At last the wooden frame was made, and slender 
vines holding the nest were attached to it. 

Then the frame was placed high on the house 
and green boughs laced over it to make it more 
homelike and keep out the sun's hot rays. 

Away from the clatter of hammers and the glare 
of the electric light, the babies grew and thrived, 
while Mother and Father Brownbird were always at 
their post watching and trusting. In a short time 
another discovery was made: the nest was found 
deserted and the babies had flown. 

Whenever the little mistress of El Nido saw the 
great glaring headlines in the newspapers about the 
dreadful war, she was not the least bit afraid, for 
she remembered how that little home which hung 
between two slender vines had been protected. 

Was not the noise of saws and hammers as dread- 
ful a sound to the little birds as the noise of firearms 
would be to her? 

When the hot grass fire swept close to the brown 
bungalow, she remembered and was not afraid. 
Had not the electric light been just as terrifying and 
as large to them as any grass fire could possibly be 
to her? 

So everything remained glad and happy at El 
Nido, for the linnets and wild canaries still bathed 
under the drip of the faucet, the mocking birds sang, 
and the snipping of the palm leaves went on every 
day. It was no secret, for somewhere in the honey- 
suckle vine Mother Brownbird was building a new 
nest. 



MR. COYOTE 



The sassy coyote comes along each night, 
And then he howls with all his might. 
I wonder if he knows how impolite 
It is to yell that way. 

It does not seem fair for him to keep 
A decent dog from his beauty sleep, 
But when beds are warm and slumber is deep, 
Then here comes Mr. Coyote. 

So our Happy lets out a long, hound bark, 
Old Bob is as swift as an ocean shark ; 
Down the hill they go scrambling in the dark 
To attend to Mr. Coyote. 

For he likes to slip and slide around 
And hide himself in the picnic ground; 
You can never place him by any sound 
Except his mournful howl. 

But he is not here and he is not there; 
No, you can't find Coyote anywhere. 
He's now in the hills and he loves to dare 
Every dog around that country. 



29 



A MORNING MUSICAL 

It was one of those wonderful, glorious days, 
When birds sang loudly their hymns of praise, 
Then all grew silent as if in amaze, 

That I began to wonder. Maybe 
The butcher bird, as he was wont to do, 
Perched high on the wires where he flew, 
Had thrown out his challenge ('twas nothing 
new) 

To each mother bird and her baby. 

I ran to the window, looked down the street, 
But I heard no sound of hurrying feet; 
A few little breezes, perfumed and sweet, 

Drifted down from the canon of holly. 
I listened intently; my ear very soon 
Caught the sound of music, such a happy tune ; 
It seemed like a dance and sometimes a croon, 

Yet 'twas ever bright and jolly. 

Oh, it was not a violin or soft guitar 

That sung in our street, but something far 

Back in childhood days, just a fleeting star 

I had known and loved. Maybe 
I was dreaming, so I listened again 
And I heard the roar of a passing train, 
But through it all came that happy refrain — 

The tune of "Pretty Baby." 

So I looked once more down our quiet street ; 
Was ever a picture to me more complete? 
Now I could hear the sound of pattering feet, — 

A little troop advancing. 
A swarthy man, with a hand organ too, 
Grinding out a tune that was gay and new; 
And in a velvet coat of gold and blue, 

A tiny monkey dancing. 



30 



A MORNING MUSICAL 

(Continued) 

There was Berta, with her determined air, 
And dear little Bobby with flaxen hair; 
A busy mother, who forgot all dull care 

And became a child for awhile. 
As the caravan slowly moved up the street, 
It was just like a painting, quaint and sweet; 
So I forgot that my gown was far from neat, 

And I never thought of style. 

Then Aunt Sallie came out with a glowing face, 
The baker stopped right in front of the place; 
The monkey danced on with abandon and grace 

And picked up each shining penny. 
So he doffed his cap and then, like a flash, 
Into a tiny pocket he dropped the cash; 
Then did all his stunts, but it would not be rash 

To say that his friends were many. 

The music then ceased for a little time, 
While the monkey scanned each nickel and dime 
And pennies, too. And yet, it was not a crime 

To say that I had to smile. 
For the little birds took up their cheerful lay, 
As the man and the monkey jogged on theirway, 
But how glad were we all for that one brief day 

To be children for awhile. 



31 



THE BANK OF LOVE 



A silhouette 'gainst the morning sky, 

The little mother stands 
High on the ridge of the velvet hill, 

With wild flowers in her hand. 
Her face in a frame of wind-blown hair 

As light as the thistle-down, 
Is all aglow with a sacred light 

That no false belief can drown. 

Each Monday morn I see her come 

O'er the ridge and down the trail; 
Forgotten is the cotton gown, 

The suds and scrubbing pail. 
"Good morning," seems to fairly shine 

From chin to clear, low brow, 
As her happy lips then frame these words : 

"I've a boy in high school now." 

But what of the boy on his way to school, 

He is just a slip of a lad, 
But his face is aglow with that sacred light, 

The same that his mother had. 
He is planning wonderful things for her, — 

She shall have the best in the land ; 
When he's old enough to own a home, 

Why, nothing will be too grand. 

When harsh words fell, the soup was thin, 

He could study without one doubt ; 
"For God was there," yes, that was the way 

He and mother thought it out. 
So when the wolf came snarling round, 

And everything grew black, 
They drew a check on the Bank of Love, 

And the enemy darted back. 



THE BANK OF LOVE 

(Continued) 

Yes, there was the little brother, too; 

To know him was such a joy. 
He came at a time when there really seemed 

No room for another boy. 
And yet he liked to stay with them; 

His baby ways, you know, 
Were just like sunshine in that home, 

For he was mother's beau. 

Sometimes the man forgot to scold; 

It seemed so strange that he 
Should be afraid of that sacred light 

That shone in the faces three. 
So he laid aside the pipe and glass 

And sought the bank they knew. 
Prosperity and joy came to them all 

Like Heaven's refreshing dew. 



OUR CALIFORNIA HOME 



Snug and close, high up, high up 
On the hillock's soft, warm breast, 

Is the little cot I call our home, 
A place of peace and rest. 

The yellow poppies smile and nod, 
The birds sing all the day; 

The gaily painted butterflies 

Know where to come and play. 

I smell the breath of mountain sage, 

I can see a carpet blue, 
Where azure lupines sway and bend 

In the mist of morning dew. 

There may be grander homes by far 
Where Love is an honored guest, 

But we can always feel His smile 
In our California nest. 



FLOWERS AND CHILDREN 

High on a mountain path, so beaten and dun, 
I found the fringed gilia laughing in the sun. 
Tiny were the slender stems 

That bore each dainty bloom, — 
All rose-pink and lavender 
From Heaven's upper room. 

Into the darkest homes, rock-ribbed and scarred, 
Come the tiny children where laughter is barred. 
Mortal thoughts are never theirs, 

They blossom all the while, 
And, just like the little gilia, 
They echo Heaven's smile. 



34 



CLOUDS IN GRIFFITH PARK 



My theater lies in a pleasant glade, 

My box is a rustic chair; 
The stage is the ridge of a mountain high, 

Green and velvety everywhere. 

And the dancing girls come every day 
From the skies and o'er the downs; 

There is a swirl of draperies, 
The swish of chiffon gowns. 

But there is no patter of tiny feet, — 
It is only the rustling leaves; 

For my dancing girls are but the clouds 
That color in mystery weaves. 

At morn they don a soft white gauze, 
And drab, on the cloudy days; 

At sunset they swirl in rosy pink, 
With lavender tints and grays. 

At night the curtain rolls slowly down, 
The stage is so dark and still; 

My dancing girls in their chiffon gowns 
Have flown beyond the hill. 



35 



gory. 



^mfth 




CHILDHOOD MEMORIES 



When we were small and lived on the farm, 
We children sometimes felt a deep alarm 
At noon, when, with clatter and din, 
The hired men all came filing in. 
With one called Fred we were not pleased, 
His food slipped down as if it were greased; 
A nice piece of pie disappeared in two bites. 
The shame of it all, most dreadful of sights! 




So there we all stood in a solemn row; 
In those days it wasn't polite, you know, 
For children to eat at the very first table, 
But we must just wait until all were able 
To rise from their chairs, and put on their hats: 
If those men only knew that twenty-two cats 
Were patiently waiting outside that day, 
I think they surely would have hurried away. 



37 



CHILDHOOD MEMORIES 

(Continued) 

Old Blarney was there with every relation, 
For Blarney believed in multiplication. 
When my Daddy muttered, under his breath, 
* 'About those cats going down to their death," 
Old Blarney just grinned and looked very wise, 
And in course of time brought a grand surprise. 
She was fine in subtracting the mice and rats, 
But nothing stingy when it came to cats. 

Where they all came from, no one could tell — 
White, black, yellow and tortoise-shell — 
But we loved them all. On our cellar door 
There was always room for just one more. 
Dear little Wha-ya we loved best of all, 
She could play with a string, a top or a ball; 
Her fur was not red, neither yellow nor pink, 
But a combination of all colors, I think. 

When dinner was over, the hired man left 
The table of goodies, so sadly bereft. 
We children saved all the crumbs and the fats 
In order to feed those dear, patient cats. 
Then our mother brought in a big, juicy pie 
That was hidden away in a cupboard nearby. 
Little Sister spoke up, "How can we be pore 
When we've twenty-two cats on the cellar 
door?" 



A SONG 



There comes a singing in my heart 

At early dawn, yes all the day; 
A song so far from earth apart, 

It seems to drive dark fears away. 
And singing, singing in my dreams, 

Although the words I scarcely hear, 
The import of this message seems 

To tell me now, that good is here. 

I look out on the slender moon, 

I watch the filmy clouds go by; 
I know these roses tell of June, 

I know my lips will cease to sigh. 
For comes this singing in my heart, 

And Oh, 'tis wondrous sweet to me 
To know that sorrow hath no part, 

That only Good can come to me. 

MILLINERY 



The spotted deer looks very queer, 
Decked in his winter bonnet — 

A pair of heavy, branching horns, 
Not a speck of trimming on it. 

And so, you see, we don't agree 
When it comes to hats and collars ; 

He would not wear the kind I wear — 
No! not for a hundred dollars. 

When spring is near, the spotted deer 
Lays off his rusty bonnet; 

A new one grows by Easter-tide 
With some charming velvet on it. 



THE WHITE DEER 



The wind fairly shrieked and whistled 

Among the great oak trees, 
So I closed the windows quickly 

To shut out the boisterous breeze. 

When the rain came down in torrents, 

A pretty scene caught my eye; 
There in the field lay the little white deer 

With faces turned toward the sky. 

Yet in city homes the doors were closed, 

Fires burned warm and bright, 
For folks were warned to stay inside 

For fear of germs that night. 

Or wear a clumsy cheesecloth mask, 

If they must venture out; 
This alone would frighten germs 

If they were round about. 

The big live oaks and comfy pens 

Ne'er tempted the little deer. 
They lay right out in the open field 

With never a thought of fear. 

The rain washed each coat so white and clean, 
With strokes both fierce and bold; 

Yet we never heard that the little deer 
Caught a single germ or cold. 



40 



FRIENDS 



A rustle in the dry oak leaves, — 

I turn and there I see 
A robin gay, whose clear, bright eyes 

Are looking straight at me. 
Upon his breast he wears a vest 

Of rich and burnished hue; 
A stranger, yet I know that he 

Is my friend, through and through. 

I take a step, and so does he, 

And then we stare awhile. 
As I go down the woodland path, 

He hops in robin style. 
He meets his mate just at the gate, 

Where a faucet drips so cool; 
They take a bath and chirp good-bye, 

When I start to Sunday School. 



41 



SOME INTERESTING FRIENDS 



Skippy, a Fox Terrier 

Who is this that darts about, 
Such a lively, merry scout, 
Putting everything to route? 

Why, that's Skippy. 
When autos gay go whizzing by, 
She never seems to bat an eye; 
You can't hate her if you try, 

For you do not mind her jokes. 

Happy, a Bloodhound 

An art collector, if you please, — 
In my daisy bed he takes his ease, 
Hides his loot and hunts for fleas, — 

That's dear Happy. 
He brought home Danny's bathing suit, 
Elizabeth's slipper and Billy's boot; 
Some other things found on the route, 

Left by forgetful folks. 

Mike, a Bird Dog 

Who is this coming down the pike, 
Whom boys respect and girls all like? 
Why, sure, it is our dear old Mike, 

That everybody loves. 
He comes each day and likes to plan 
To peep into your garbage can, 
But should he call on Betty or Dan, 

They need not wear their gloves. 



SOME INTERESTING FRIENDS 

(Continued) 



A Medley 

There are other dogs upon the Drive 
Just as smart and as much alive; 
It is only fair if I should strive 

Their fame and deeds to recall. 
When Fritzy bathes, he is white as snow; 
Poncho is black as any crow; 
Scotty and Laddie, you all well know. 

There, now! I have told you all. 



43 



LETTER TO JOSEPHINE 



Los Angeles, Cal. 

Date, Springtime. 



To Josephine, my Little Friend: 

Today Mt. Washington is smiling, but the little 
brown birds are hopping about in great glee and, 
oh, they are so busy! 

For many days the tears have been running down 
the cheeks of Mt. Washington, yet sometimes when 
the sun peeped from behind the clouds, she forgot 
her tears and smiled; then all the little birds broke 
forth in song. 

The leaves of the trees seemed to be sprinkled 
with diamond dewdrops, and we were so glad to 
feel once more the warm sunlight, but I soon learned 
that when Mt. Washington put on her misty nose 
veil more tears were to follow. 

Now where do you suppose that Mt. Washing- 
ton hides all her tears after the wild flowers have 
quenched their thirst and been satisfied? Why, in 
her great tear bottle, the Arroyo, of course. 

It is a modest little stream that flows back of 
Sycamore Grove. As it trickles o'er the white 
stones and clumps of green water-cress, it gives no 
hint that some day it may surprise us by acting like 
a half-grown, turbulent child, who defies all re- 
straint. It was right here, one day when the Arroyo 
was in a placid mood, that we found the dear little 
hop-toad, which was to take the wonderful journey 
East on the train, and be your traveling companion. 

Carefully a little girl with yellow curls carried him 
home and placed him in comfortable quarters in the 
bathroom. Now whether he longed for the trick- 
ling waters of the Arroyo or whether the maid dis- 



liked his company in the well ordered home, I do 
not know, but in some way, just before a little girl 
started on the long journey to Washington, D. C, 
the little hop-toad mysteriously disappeared. Now 
wasn't Divine Love kind to give the little California 
toad his freedom? 

He was used to the sunshine and soft rains of Los 
Angeles and knew nothing of steam-heated apart- 
ments; besides, he had spent all of his baby days in 
the park, where he and his relatives hopped about 
joyfully in the broad bed of red salvias which bor- 
dered the walk. 

Not far from this was the dear little lily pond, 
and farther on the beautiful Arroyo, which held the 
sacred tears that the foothills shed; but remember, 
these were not bitter tears, but they were soft and 
gentle and formed such lovely frog ponds. Tiny 
fish darted in and out around the rocks and hid 
themselves under the clumps of green water-cress. 

Now and then a big bullfrog has been brave 
enough to venture forth with a deep bass solo, but 
is he any happier than the little hop-toads? 

They know that spring is coming to Los Angeles, 
then old Sycamore Grove will don her beautiful cos- 
tume of marvelous color. The big sycamores will 
hurry to get into their green gowns, which at first 
are fernlike in appearance. The swamp magnolia 
will then pin on her large ornaments of beautiful 
flowers. I think it rather strange that she should 
prefer to put on her jewels before her nice, green 
dress appears. After all this display, come the 
snowballs, lilacs and bridal-wreath, and, last of all, 
the red salvias which the little hop-toads love so 
well. 

Mt. Washington also is putting on her new spring 
clothes. One of her long arms will be covered with 
blue lupines, dotted here and there with her choicest 
jewels of gold, the wild helianthus. The dainty 
owl's clover and mission bells will appear, and even 
now the golden cups of the California poppies are 
modestly peeping out from their gray-green foliage. 



The brodiaea, or blue-bells, as the little children 
love to call them, will soon be nodding in the bil- 
lowy fringes of the wild oats with which Mt. Wash- 
ington loves to trim her spring gown. Later on she 
will decorate it with dainty butterfly bows of the 
Mariposa lilies. 

All of her slipper bows are washed clean and 
bright with her tears. You know Mt. Washington's 
slipper bows are the beautiful homes nestling at her 
feet. My little brown bungalow is such a tiny bow, 
but the little wild birds know just where to find it. 

A fat brown bird sits on a perch every morning, 
just opposite my bedroom window, and watches me 
with sharp, bright eyes, and I always feel that she is 
studying every move that I make. Sometimes I sing 
to her and she listens politely and, when the song is 
finished, flies away. 

I could tell you more about the little wild visitors 
and the happy children who find their way to Mt. 
Washington's tiny slipper bow, but that must all 
come in another letter, because if I should stop to 
tell you about Father Roadrunner, and Mr. Bluejay, 
Susie Cottontail and the dear little humming bird, 
it would take too long; so wishing a little girl a 
happy good-night, I remain as ever, 

Your loving friend, 

SARAH SIMONS REESE. 



HELEN 



I met a little desert maid, 

Whose deep, clear eyes, so unafraid, 
Were like twin wells, of azure hue, 

Reflecting thought both pure and true. 

We walked together, she and I, 

Along the stretch of gray-white sand; 

We spoke few words, but I could feel 
The pressure of her tiny hand. 

This little maid in gingham gown 
I had only known a few short days, 

But when I looked into those eyes 

And met her earnest, searching gaze, 

It seemed to me that we had been 
Fast friends for many years; 

Just one in step and one in thought, 
But never, never one in tears. 

Some may call her home "the Desert," 

Yet I hardly deem it fair; 
How can it be a desert when 

Love and Helen are still there? 



47 




THE GARBAGE MAN 



Oh! the garbage man is a busy man, 
And he rides with lordly mien 

Just twice a week on our quiet street 
In a clumsy old machine. 

My garbage can was not so old 
That it should cause offense. 

The worthy man went sailing by 
And left it full of dents. 



THE GARBAGE MAN 

(Continued) 

He sent it rolling down the street, — 

Perhaps it liked to roam; 
The lid was flat; I always knew 

That this part would stay at home. 

I would have liked a fine new can, 
But thought, "Oh, what's the use!" 

For when that man went sailing by 
'Twould share the same abuse. 

I tried to like that garbage man, 
And put my fears to rout. 

The can was given another twist, 
Then the bottom soon fell out. 

So then I had to go to town 
And buy a brand new can; 

I meant to choose a goodly one, 
But I thought of the garbage man. 

So I bought a little dinky one 
And paid my sixty cents; 

This modest sum I would not mind 
If the can went full of dents. 

When next the garbage man was due, 
I gazed from a window high 

To see just how he'd treat that can 
When he went sailing by. 

To my surprise, the man was kind. 

Oh, yes! I know I'm sane. 
Just like a babe he lifted it, 

Then he set it down again. 

You who rail at the garbage man, 
And think to vent your spite, 

Discard the old, buy a better one, 
Then you will be treated right. 



49 



A CLASSIC 



Dan Damon was a goodly dog, 

A dog of reddish hue, 
So long of limb, so long of hair, 

And nothing much to do. 
Upon my kitchen shelf there lay 

A useless, idle cake; 
A bar of dog soap, dark and brown, 

I kept for old times sake. 

I had a little dachshund once, 

She of the sausage type; 
I bought the dog soap just for her, 

But the time was never ripe 
To give a bath, 'twas extra work, 

I put it off each day; 
The dog soap lay a useless thing, 

Then Fraulein ran away. 

I hunted high, I hunted low, 

And hoped for her return, 
But every time that shelf I'd dust, 

A lesson I would learn. 
That bar of soap was in my way; 

The dachshund ne'er came back. 
To whom could I ever give that cake 

Wrapped in a paper sack? 



50 



A CLASSIC 

(Continued) 

But when Dan Damon came along, 

I viewed his lengthy hair. 
How many baths that dog would need ; 

The dog soap should go there. 
'Twas nearing fast, the Christmas-tide ; 

That bar of soap I'd send, 
Wrapped up in tissue, nice and fine, 

Tied with ribbon at each end. 

And now I dust my shelf in peace, 

With nothing in the way. 
Dan Damon's mistress, she can use 

That dog soap every day. 



TIPPETY ANNE 



Tippety Anne was a puppy dog, 

So white, so round and fat; 
Just for fun she dug up the ferns. 

Now what do you think of that? 

Helen and Sister were invited out 

To a party grand and fine; 
So Mother washed all the lingerie 

And hung it out on the line. 

Yes, Mother rubbed and scrubbed the clothes 
While the children were at play, 

So then she put on her Sunday hat 
And went out to spend the day. 

The line was slack and the prop was weak; 

The lingerie swung in the breeze. 
(They were white as snow, all trimmed in lace 

And tucked clear up to the knees.) 

Tippety Anne seemed fast asleep, — 
Twas just a pretense, you know; 

She knew that prop would never stand 
If only the wind would blow. 



52 



TIPPETY ANNE 

(Continued) 

She yawned awhile and thought it out, 

For Anne was no idle pup. 
When left alone 'twould be such sport 

To chew that laundry up. 

Our Tippety Anne was wide awake, 

Then how her eyes did shine! 
She threw herself 'gainst the wiggly prop 

And down came the slack clothesline. 

A glorious time that puppy had, 

Twould make poor Mother scringe; 

All that was left of the lingerie 

Were waistbands trimmed with fringe. 

When Helen and Sister came home that day, 
You should see each upturned nose; 

For Mother has to dress them now 
Just in citizen's plain clothes. 



THE DAISY CARPET 



Oh, can it be that you do not know 
The spot where yellow daisies grow 
Like a velvet carpet, soft and fine, 
'Neath pepper trees and somber pine? 
Where long, cool shadows lay between 
Like ribbon bands of tender green, — 
Lavender laces, spotches of pink, 
Fuzzy cream-cups that nod and blink, 
Are found in the daisy carpet. 

'Tis a place where children love to play, 
Where mothers forget to say "Nay, nay!" 
If the carpet wears out, who can fear? 
It is sure to grow in another year. 
All forget that queer word "Don't," 
You never hear one cross "I won't." 
So every one with joy just thrills, — 
If sandwiches fall and lemonade spills, 
It can't hurt the daisy carpet. 



54 



TAPESTRY 



I saw some rare old tapestry, 

Very warm and rich in hue, 
Where silver threads in riot ran, 

Laughed and peeped right through. 
But in that quiet tapestry 

Cleamed a golden thread, and then 
It sunk down deep into the woof, 

Only to come back again. 

Our lives are like a tapestry, 

That others see us live; 
The silver threads are happy smiles, 

It costs not much to give. 
Golden threads are loving thoughts 

That shine and sink in deep, but when 
We least suspect, with added love, 

They come stealing back again. 



55 



THE SOLDIER 



Far back from the dusty roadside, 

Guarded by tall, dark pines, 
Stands an old deserted mansion 

Half hidden with tangled vines. 
The weeds about its threshold, 

That stand so grim and tall, 
Have long since choked the roses 

Which bloomed beside the wall. 

There in the lonely silence 

Never a sound is heard, 
Save the mournful sway of pine boughs 

Or the voice of a far off bird. 
Long years ago when Summer 

Her fairest flowers had won, 
And when the ripening wheat fields 

Waved in the wind and sun, 

When the briar rose by the window 
Breathed fragrance in the air, 

And the hollyhock in the garden 
Smiled at the skies so fair, — 

A little girl sat in silence 

Watching the butterflies play, 

And heard the drone of the honey bees 
As they bore their sweets away. 

She thought of the brave soldiers, 

And wished that she might be 
Some use to her own dear country 

And set its prisoners free. 
But she could not go to battle 

With arms of tempered steel; 
Her brothers, they were chosen 

With the enemy to deal. 



56 



THE SOLDIER 

(Continued) 

And as she sat there thinking, 

It seemed to her that she 
Might be as brave a soldier 

As any man could ever be. 
For she knew that steel and iron 

Could not slay the unkind thought, 
Or chase away the hateful words 

That fear and envy brought. 

So she caught up a burnished weapon, 

The priceless blade of Love, 
And strode forward into battle 

With a shield from God above. 
Then old Anger, grim and sullen, 

Faded away from view, 
As Fear and lank Discouragement 

Pale and terror stricken grew. 

For the blade of Love was flashing 

As the soldier held it high, 
And the foes grew faint and fearful 

When the burnished Shield was nigh. 
Those tiny seeds of criticism, 

Now failed to come to birth; 
Old thoughts both sharp and bitter, 

Found a grave in dusty earth. 

Through many years, the soldier 

Toiled on from day to day; 
Until little foes were vanquished, 

And great ones fled away. 
And thus, she helped her country 

With no thought of fame or pelf, 
With the blade of Love she conquered 

That old enemy called Self. 



57 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Bank of Love 32 

Bean Blowers ------- 14 

Butterball 22 

California Thrush 8 

Childhood Memories ----- 36 

Classic - - -- - - - - 50 

Clouds in Griffith Park 35 

Coyote, Mr. - 29 

Daisy Carpet 54 

El Nido 24 

Friends 41 

Flowers and Children ----- 34 

Garbage Man -48 

Green Parrot 17 

Griffith Park 7 

Helen 47 

Humming Bird ------- 10 

Jimmy Skunk 21 

Letter to Josephine ------ 44 

Lullaby - - - 19 

Millinery 39 

Morning Musical ------ 30 



CONTENTS 

(Continued) 

Page 

Nemophila 13 

New Moon 13 

New Umpire 20 

Our California Home 34 

Soldier « 56 

Some Interesting Friends 42 

Somewhere in California 12 

Song 39 

Tapestry 55 

Tippety Anne 52 

West Wind and the Oak 17 

White Deer 40 

Wild Flowers in Griffith Park - 18 



60 



PRESS OF" THE 

IAU ER-RETERM AN COMPANY 

LOS ANGELES. CALIFORNIA 



